


Ruin It

by LelithSugar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Consensual Thramsay, Fluff and Smut, Kissing, M/M, Massage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ramsay is his own warning, Romance, Vanilla, except not so much in this one, if you think this has a happy ending... you're right it does well done you, talking about feelings, the author was under duress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 05:54:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11571738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: Ramsay and Theon fuck. With no kinks, perversion or coercion. Seriously. I couldn't believe it either, and neither can they.Of course it’s from the Bloodied Up ‘Perverts in love’ AU, because I haven’t totally lost my mind.





	Ruin It

**Author's Note:**

> This will make not one drop of sense unless you're pretty familiar with the AU because it's way too far from the canon, and rightly so. I don't want to at all imply that I could imagine the canon versions of the characters dipping into this behaviour, because... no. Also of note is that I've nailed my colours to the mast in the sense of going with show appearances rather than book, because… because it's a pretty picture and I think that's the consensus where porn is concerned anyway.
> 
> For my poorly girl, who needs cuddles and fluff and who requested vanilla consensual Thramsay! The disgusting pervert. Honestly. I had such trouble writing this. 
> 
> So, the AU if you want to read this and aren’t interested in dredging through the rest, splits from canon at the end of series two of the show, Theon is handed to the Boltons and by fortuitous chance he and Ramsay discover the perversions they conveniently have in common before anything horrible happens. The rest? Smoke and mirrors, a cover of playing up to audiences and circulating rumours in order to hide them in plain sight because really, who’d believe someone would enjoy being dragged around in a collar like that? If you can reframe season three and so on as being hear-say from shocked onlookers, you can enjoy guilt free.

As soon as the door to Ramsay's bedchamber closes and is securely locked shut, the roles are discarded, hung up to be redressed in like snow-dusted cloaks. There are a few quiet moments of mutual stretching: Ramsay from his bow and his boiled leather, Theon from his asumed hunch, and they grin at each other, simultaneously tickled by the parallel.

“Does your back hurt?”

Ramsay twists his arm up behind himself and grasps ineffectually at his own shoulder blade.

“I felt something snap like a bowstring. Just he… - ah!”

It's unusual for Ramsay to complain about pain, and Theon isn't ever quite sure if he's hardy and strong willed or just lucky. On a whim, he ventures for something that is neither his pretend miserable servitude, nor his eager private submission, nor still the playful sparring they usually find themselves in when not playing any role: a sort of softness he's not had the occasion or the courage to let show for a long, long time.

“Would you like me to try and massage it for you? I'm no maester but you can tell me what feels like it will help."

Ramsay too seems to realise that Theon is not dropping into grovelling after him, and is too grateful to twist his kindness into a struggle, however much he thinks he might enjoy that. His back really is hurting him.

“Would you? I feel like I've been trampled over and I'm supposed to be leading out to The Twins tomorrow.”

Theon brushes away a flinch of sadness.

“I can try, take your- oh.” He'd have suggested Ramsay take off the rest of his clothes, but Ramsay is naked before he can finish the sentence and gathering up a couple of extra cushions.

Theon is not sure if he strips then because he doesn't want to get oil on his linen or because it feels so remarkably odd to be even half dressed when Ramsay is totally and happily nude, snuggling himself down on his front in his furs with the satisfied smile of a tired child awaiting a bedtime story. Still, he's never been shy about his body - knowing well that he has no cause to be has always helped on that score- and Ramsay opens one eye to give him a little appraising look and a nod before Theon clambers up onto the bed and straddles him.

Heat flutters, but Theon ignores it. He presses with his hands first in a sort of warningto anticipate the weight, and then opts to sit squarely on Ramsay’s arse.

Ramsays arse is… well, much like the rest of him in that he manages to have quite a bit of meat on him without half a pound of it being fat, and Theon spends a deal of time admiring the functional perfection of his physique. Every twist of his body flexing the flesh speaks of riding or hunting or running, of fighting and weaponry and all the other things Ramsay is so remarkably adept at and Theon likes to pretend he doesn't like to think about. His skin is white-pale and surprisingly unmarried by scarring...and those marks that are there mostly attest to carelessness and over-confidence rather than anyone having managed to get one over on him.

Mostly people don't dare.

Theon pours himself a handful of oil, turns it over quickly and starts rubbing it into the taut muscle. It does feel harder than it should do in a swathe down the side of Ramsay's spine and Theon works his knuckles into it, pushing into the meat of his flesh, admiring its supple smoothness.

It gleams from the oil he's using to help his hands slip. That's as beautiful a thing as Theon's ever seen on maid or man and he revels in the opportunity to grab handfuls of the warm flesh of Ramsays back and feel his muscles. All that strength, all that power, condensed into tight curves and smooth planes, soft in repose with his fingers working into them but he's felt them at work, solid as stone.

He's almost surprised at his cock hardening but then isn't sure why. It's not as if he wasn't aware he found Ramsay attractive  - not after all this: Ramsay has made him feel like nobody else ever has, he worships him blindly - just maybe he wasn't aware of what he was attracted to. Ramsay is far from dominance now, moaning gratefully under Theon’s kneading hands, and Theon is still seized with the urge to touch him, to please him and to pursue his own pleasure in the process, which puts paid to the idea that it's just the power of intimidation that Theon’s body responds to.  Perhaps he'd only thought of his natural bent towards people who made him feel weak and helpless that made his mouth dry out and his stomach flutter when it quite obviously … isn't. Perhaps he's known that for a while.

"Let me turn over."  
  
A quick boot of fear up under the ribs. Not that Ramsay will do anything uninvited to him, he understands how they work, he thinks, certainly enough that Ramsay won’t hurt him without knowing it’s alright to first, but he isn’t sure how he’ll react to his pet boy so obviously enjoying this sort of contact with him. He might be disgusted; he might not think about being with other men in anything but a display of power, an outlet for his darker needs… Theon wasn't sure _he_ did, really… and yet here they are, with their wine and bed sharing and _this_.

He needn’t have worried. Ramsay on his back under him is his usual self: unphased and unabashed by his own erection, apparently far less confused by this turn of events, running warm hands up Theon’s thighs with an appreciative mumble, and Theon is alight with the self consciousness of admiration.  
  
Ramsay jerks his knees up so that Theon loses his balance and falls forwards, catching himself on his forearms before his full weight crashes down onto Ramsays chest, and Ramsay kisses him.  
  
They've kissed before. They've kissed for comfort and reassurance when everything else in their words and bodies has been hatred and violence, however welcome. Theon has kissed every square inch of Ramsay's body, at some point, he's sure of it, and some bits more than others...  Ramsay has kissed him: fiercely, full of teeth, more of a mark of ownership of his mouth than of affection;or chastely on the hand or the cheek in company, a mockery of a lord’s love for a faithful servant when seen given from The Bastard of Bolton to poor, battered, quaking Reek.  
  
That is not this. Ramsay kisses him deep and slow, breathing through his nose, one hand coming up to gently hold him by the back of the head, letting their lips part for an instant just to bring them back at a different angle and have more of his mouth. He kisses him like a maid, except Theon has never felt more a man in his life, strong and hot blooded and worthy, full of himself at being able to seduce not a naive lowborn girl or a desperate old lech but a man like Ramsay. And hard, so hard, because the softness of Ramsay’s touches speaks of the sort of easy pleasure he forgets how much he likes. He's assumed he'd given that up in favour of this voluntary exchange of power but has not, he realises now, fully processed the wider setting in which their little asides sit: their arrangement works well, but perhaps he's not considered how many less elaborate strategies would achieve the same ends, if the ends had been simply to keep Theon around so that they can continue their debaucheries in dark dungeon corners … or perhaps he had, but didn't dare hope. But he should know better, certainly by now. Ramsay cares for him like family should,and not just for his safety but his continued security and happiness. He confides him in like an equal, and a friend. Ramsay kisses him like he loves him.

Strong hands stroke over Theon’s back, his arse, his hips, back down his legs and Theon takes his weight off his right hand, still shining with oil, to push it down between their bodies. It’s an awkward reach with their mouths still locked together, with Ramsay’s tongue against his, hot and soft and still demanding even without the aggression, but Ramsay’s not at all dissuaded by Theon groping down his stomach before eventually grabbing a slippery hold of his cock.

Ramsay rumbles approval into his mouth and Theon’s stomach rolls. This is happening, and it’s happening at his behest. Not at the point of Ramsay’s knife; not tied or threatened or part of any such game but because touching each other feels good. Because they're two young men in full health and fine fettle and they want each other, there's no denying that.

A familiar hot curl of blissful shame winds around Theon’s core at that.

It's almost ridiculous,  after all they’ve done that this, somehow, feels taboo. Guilty. This isn't for power, or for fulfilling those needs nobody else has understood… this is because he wants it.  Theon can’t pretend he’s unwilling, now, and it sends another heat through him to know that of all they’ve playacted at, this would be the worst in his family’s eyes. They’d surely rather see him battered and taken by force than wriggling happily on another man’s cock, sleeping in his bed, playing at being his slave whilst being pampered like a courtesan because that's what stokes their fires. There'd be less shame in it.

Theon is not ashamed, but he's burning.

When he pulls back to get a better grip, Ramsay is looking hungrily downwards at where their bodies meet, or don't quite meet, with Theon straddling his thighs instead of where he really wants him.

"Have you got enough oil on your hand still...?"  
  
Theon Doesn't quite twig what the means until Ramsay pushes his hand down,  and then It's pathetic, how needy the noise he makes in agreement is. He can just about reach back to rub his oiled fingertips over his own hole and fortunately Ramsay is making none of the noises like he's expecting a real show. Time appears to be of the essence, and Ramsay seems more intent on watching his face than the action as Theon works his finger inside, bracing himself to attempt a second. The intensity of the way he's being stared at is dizzying.  
  
"Let me have some".

Theon is not sure if Ramsay's referring to the oil or his arse. The answering grunt of “help yourself” loosely correlates to the moment he chucks the small flask onto the bed as close to his hand as he can be bothered to aim.

After some sloppy fiddling with the bottle, Ramsay’s hand reaches awkwardly between Theon’s legs, slides up Theon’s wrist and presses his oil-wet fingertips to the taut skin where Theon's hole is stretched around his own fingers. He pauses there, enjoying feeling what Theon’s doing to himself, his prick twitching with interest and his eyes full of want.

As wonderful as the idea of having both of their fingers inside him is, the angle is too difficult so Theon pulls his hand away and lets Ramsay replace it.  Ramsay’s in a better position to touch him in just the right places once he has finished stroking oil against him, teasing at him, and actually pushes inside. He takes his own time, starting with just his first finger even though he must have felt that Theon was using two, pushing it in and drawing back, crooking it and curling it to stroke at every sensitive inch he can reach. He watches Theon’s face whilst  he does it, too, looking for the flicker in his eyes and the quirk of his lips that he can’t quite help.

It's maddening: Ramsay’s not stretching him, just slowly fucking him on one finger and Theon has never been patient enough to feel anything quite like it, the surge of hot sparks without any pain or hurry. He makes it two fingers only when Theon is starting to whine with need and is decisively quick past the first ring of muscle and then slow, probably slower than there’s any need for him to be to push further in and feel around again, reaching up inside until the rest of his hand stops him pushing any further.

Ramsay looks him dead in the eyes with a smirk as he crooks his fingers, and Theon keens.  
  
"There? More, or just like that?"

Theon is tempted by an “as it please you, my lord’ but he doesn't want to cheapen this. What does he want? Ordinary instinct says he wants fucking, as hard and as quickly as possible, but there's something happening now that promises more if he's patient.

“Like that. Just for a little longer”

Pleased, Ramsay presses again and makes Theons’ eyes roll.

A groan escapes Theon and he loses his balance, or the will to hold himself up, and falls forwards to hold himself up on his hands over Ramsay’s body again.

They spend a while like that -  Theon dizzy and lost in heady, slow pleasure, panting, his forehead resting heavily on Ramsay’s jaw -  until it becomes a desperation that needs something more to fill it, apparently just as Ramsay’s desire wins out over his patience. With a final brief kiss to Theon's hair he slides his fingers out and nudges him back up to sitting.

A slick of oil and Ramsay steadies his cock in his fist whilst Theon settles over the tip and lets his weight pull him onto it, slowly, so much more deliberately than when Ramsay simply pushes him over something and pushes into him and Theon gasps at the feeling. He's had it gentle… ish, before but never such a conscious motion on his part, feeling his body clenching and fighting against every inch whilst simultaneously grasping for more, and he wriggles his hips a bit to make it easier.  
  
"That's it, just rock yourself down..." Ramsay coaxes him, as if he's never done this before.

Has he? Not like this. Face to face, yes, but only with Ramsay holding him down on his back. Sometimes with a forearm over his throat, taunting him, utterly in control.  Instead now Theon finds himself able to choose the pace at which he is fucked, lifting and dropping himself backwards and down quite tentatively the first few times until the oil is spread within him and his body relaxes, and then settling into almost bouncing.

Ramsay’s hands come up to grip between his hips and waist and support his weight. He doesn’t really try to influence his speed or position any more than Theon makes any conscious effort to accommodate him; neither is any more in control than the other so the rhythm is stilted, and that's probably for the best. Ramsays expression is a question and Theon nods breathlessly at him, face slackening with effort and bliss.

Shifting back and forwards at his own pace, Theon is almost oblivious to the soft grunting that tells him he's not the only one enjoying himself, just fucking himself on Ramsay’s prick the way he would his own fingers or whatever else he could lay his hands on when he was in the mood to have those sweet places inside him worked so thoroughly, and like this he's just as able to make sure they're stroked right on every thrust. It's an effort that makes his legs ache and his back sweat but every jolt of that stomach-churning pleasure is enough reward. He'd feel selfish but Ramsay is plainly enraptured watching him do it, and every now and then he groans and Theon isn't sure if that is because something in his movement is catching him just right or if he's just that pleased by the sight of Theon enjoying riding him so much. However inclined he usually is to insecurity, the way Ramsay is looking at him, Theon can believe it.

There’s something unbearably intense about the way Ramsay coaxes him with his hands, stares at him, whispers to him, checking whether he's in the right position for Theon to get what he wants. There's hunger in his voice but he seems content to let Theon set the pace. It’s no slower or faster than ever really, but being talked through it, acknowledging how Ramsay cares about the pleasure he's giving him rather than consciously ignoring it or, as Theon has grown to suspect of late, pretending not to care whilst in fact working diligently to pull at all his triggers is definitely new. In general their sex seems to have turned from a mutual outpouring of quirks into almost one-upmanship in trying to score points from the other’s weakspots, working out how to get under one another's skin and bring abound that blinding, mindless high of pleasure and the stupid satisfaction that follows. But Ramsay isn’t going for any of the easy wins, isn’t biting Theon any harder than a scrape of teeth, isn’t telling him what a slut he looks like that or threatening him and their enjoyment doesn’t seem to be suffering for it, which somehow makes Theon feel more vulnerable than ever.

Ramsay's hands slip from a pleasantly tight squeeze on Theon's waist to scratch at the small of his back, up to clasp at his flexing shoulders, down his sides and into his thighs. His skin is slipperier by the moment and Ramsay’s hands, rough but oil smeared, are burning. Ramsay grunts something Theon doesn’t quite catch over his own panting breath, busy rocking himself back on Ramsay's cock until strong arms wrap around him and still him.

Ramsay sits up and supports Theon’s weight back, dipping him until Theon finds his balance again, with his hands on Ramsay’s shins.

That's new, and with the right tilt to his hips, enough arch in his back, Theon finds Ramsays cock driven hard into the very top of that most sensitive spot, still and unrelenting, and it makes him screw his eyes up and drop his head back in a near- silent, involuntary gasp.

Ramsay looks over all of him, eyes sober but heavy lidded.

“That’s fucking beautiful.”

He Takes up a grasp on Theon’s cock and strokes his fist down his length and then up; once, twice, like he’s really feeling out the size of him for the first time rather than just playing with his body, and then quicker, finding a pace that falls in with the lift of Theon’s hips.

For a moment it's as though Theon is flying, soaring somewhere between Ramsay’s earnest praise - he Knows, somehow, not to expect the teasing and namecalling as whorish as he may feel - and the way their bodies fit together. Surely they were made for this? Theon has fucked and been fucked in about every configuration he can wrap his brain around but he has never been so entirely consumed with desire as he is… with his own or Ramsay’s, with Ramsay kissing at his throat and collarbones whenever he can pull him close enough, one hand supporting the small of his back as he rides and the other striking unevenly at his cock.

Theon manages a few full rolls of his hips down onto Ramsay’s lap before the strain of the position is too much and he loses momentum, and Ramsay doesn't rebuke him for stopping again, just wraps his arms around Theon in a secure hug and their eyes meet for a second of pure uncomfortable heat.

“Can I lay you back? I want to fuck you. Properly.”  
  
Theon has to shut his eyes before… he's not sure what would happen if he carried on letting Ramsay look into him like that, like he's boring into his soul the way his cock is driving into Theon's arse, but he's answered him with a moan and finds himself lifted and cradled like a babe in arms down onto his back on the featherbed. Ramsay slips from him in the movement, but makes the most of the less than comfortable opportunity to re-oil himself with one hand and rub what’s left on his fingers into Theon’s stretched hole.

And when he slides back in Theon feels so good he could almost cry for it.

It's an easier position for Ramsay to control but he seems intent on keeping up the teasingly steady pace rather than forging ahead with any hurry, and Theon is strangely grateful. He can't do as much to demonstrate his willingness in this position other that grasp at Ramsay’s back, but he feels as though even that will be enough to show how much he wants this. He feels skin rolling up under his nails, the pure molten heat of his own weight in the furs, and each slide of Ramsay’s cock into his body. His whine is half pleasure, half frustration because it's just a little shy of where he wants it… and Ramsay is listening. He grips Theon under the knees and lifts his legs about his hips.

“There, that's good…” The pleasure singing through Theon’s body again as Ramsay sinks right into the right spot and he squeezes around him reflexively, making the heat plume up his back. He's not used to chasing those thrills without the dual rush of pain but it's surprising how quickly he remembers, sighing heavily as Ramsay starts to move again. “Mmm.”

“Yes,” Ramsay hisses into his ear, and Theon's so lost in his own sensations that it almost startles him, but instead it makes the back of his neck prickle.  “More of that. Let me hear what I'm doing to you.”

It's a fine line from being told to beg for it but that line is shining, bright as a beacon and suddenly broader than the Weeping Water. It’s not to humiliate him or catch him out that Ramsay asks but because he wants to hear that he’s wanted, and he might be expecting more helpless mewling  but Theon finds a voice he'd near forgotten he had, low and confident.   

“Turning me to fucking butter, is what you're doing. That's heaven.”

Ramsay moans.

Theon often talks to him because he knows Ramsay likes to hear the filth that bubbles out of him when he’s being fucked, but if he asks for anything it's usually faster, harder, more; or begging for mercy; either, with the unhinged desperation of one whose life depends on it. He has not had the occasion to manage ‘sultry’, and apparently Ramsay loves it. It's not obvious whether the speeding of his thrusts then is deliberate or not, but Theon didn't ask for it, and at that moment it’s not what he wants and he isn’t afraid to say so.

“No no, slow down. Slowly.”

Ramsay gets a reign on himself and after a couple more quick thrusts, manages to slow back down to the steady, shallow rocking Theon was so enjoying.

“Yes. Yes. Fuck.   _Fuuuh-uuck._ “

Theon gets a hold on his own cock, not really making any effort to stroke it but letting the motion of Ramsay thrusting into him push it into his hand and taking his pleasure that way. Once he’s there he realises he usually asks or waits to be told but he needs it, it feels so good that he can't bear to invite any complication and, judging by the moan of encouragement, Ramsay doesn't mind at all.

"Go on." Ramsay knows him well enough to realise he might hesitate, or else just really wants to see it happen. "Touch yourself for me."  
  
Theon doesn’t answer, because he's not sure he's capable. Ramsay wanting him bruised and bleeding and begging is one thing. Ramsay just _wanting_ him is another entirely. He busies his mouth with exploring what he can reach, kissing and nipping at Ramsays jaw, his ears; mouth open and panting into his neck for a moment before he manages to dip down and suck at the skin over his collarbones. It's partly to distract himself, because he’s spiraling already, upwards towards his peak. It’s torturously slow still but that means it has none of the sudden leaps and plummets, just a firm build forging straight ahead, predictable as long as Ramsay keeps doing _exactly that..._ dragging the head of his cock back and forth over that knot inside him, so steadily that the bliss doesn’t ebb between one thrust and the next. He squeezes down as if trying to trap Ramsay deep inside, right where he wants him. Theon's body floods with heat and his cock pulses in his hand, close to spilling.

“Yes, Ram, yes...” Not master, not ‘my lord’, _Ramsay Ramsay Ramsay..._

Ramsay closes his eyes and his swallow is visible in the flex of his throat, a ragged pull of breath in through his nose.

“I can't-”

No. Of course Theon hadn't expected this sort of easy ride to last. He knows that would have been too much but he's enjoyed it, he's riled and hot and ready for whatever deviance Ramsay needs to make it fun for him…

“- I can't keep this up for long. you're going to make me come.”

Theon almost chokes. The heat in him spikes, comes to a sudden boil at the inadvertent praise and that's all he wants, right now, Ramsay’s seed inside him, filling him up. If he were a woman he'd surely be fat with Ramsay's child by now, the amount of times Ramsay's spent in him. And then they'd all look at him and know he spent his life on his back for Ramsay, or on all fours, getting fucked and making him spill... _they all know that anyway..._

“ _Yes_ , do it. I'm close.”

Ramsay _whimpers_. Like a trapped animal.

“Are you going to come for me?” It’s almost a tone of wonder.  “Just like this?”

“Mmm-”’ is all Theon can manage without interrupting his own steady climb. He gets the feeling Ramsay suppressed a ‘good boy’ that would otherwise have been the response to that… wishes he hadn't, really, but he appreciates the thought.

And then Ramsay lets himself give into it, closing his eyes and bucking his hips as he surrenders to orgasm, and even though he expected it Theon marvels at that: his first incontrovertible proof that it isn't just the perversion that bonds them. It can’t be, if simply fucking him in the arse is enough to take Ramsay all the way there, face to face like this, with Ramsay’s hair clinging to the sweat on his forehead and with him watching so intently to see if he’ll follow.

He makes the most of that thought and of Ramsay’s last deep, uneven thrusts; his unusually soft gasp, the flood of heat as he spills inside him... not on him or over him but right up inside as far as his cock reaches and he holds there, still and panting and still hard, whilst Theon clenches down around him and curls his toes and - yes, _yes_ -  comes. Pleasure furls from his core out through him and down his limbs, shatters and sweeps back in like the tide, and by the time he falls back to himself his cock is twitching in his loose grip and dripping its last pealred strands between their bodies.

Ramsay rolls off him, groaning, to lay on his back. He stares into the rafters, stomach shining with sweat and Theon's seed, half-soft cock glistening and his hand warmly laid on Theon’s thigh. Theon looks up too, as though they've both found something terribly fascinating to watch in the dim, dusty reaches of the room rather than because they're both too bonelessly, blissfully worn out to move so much as an eyeball.

“Well.” Theon huffs a breath out, seemingly at a loss. “That was nice.”

Ramsay bursts out laughing, bright and earnest, which Theon finds a little unfair.

“What. I didn't think you did nice! I thought you'd need, I don't know... Like you needed it…”

"What..? Oh, no. If anything it's the other way round. I can fuck just fine without all that. I just tend to find myself... interested by those sorts of things. Can't help it, it's in the blood."

"… I think that's worse!" The less thought either of them put into which of Ramsay's ideosyncracies run down the family line, the better, really. There's an unspoken suspicion that part of the way Ramsay is might explain a great many of the strange things his house is known for, but then againthey're living proof that things are not always what they seem. But sometimes they are.  "Next time you come in hot and want me spread over the nearest chair I'm going to be wondering if it's because you've just gutted someone."

“Could be,” agrees Ramsay casually, still a little breathless and Theon's never entirely sure if he's teasing. “Might just be because you have an exceptionally nice arse.”

“Which you're imagining beating black and blue with a broom handle, I know.”

“I am not!” Ramsay is indignant. Then he can't help smiling. “I was thinking about a tawse and that wouldn't bruise… just turn you a lovely bright pink. But I think I've adeqUately demonstrated that my appetites are perfectly healthy when they want to be. Not that I have to prove a thing to you. Did you think I only fucked you because you let me knock you around a bit?"

" _Knock me around_ …?! You wrenched my arm out of its socket!"

"It was only a strain...".

"It popped. You heard the nosie when you pushed it back in. Like an arrow into oak. _Thunk._ That's hardly a strain."  Theon is evidently so bothered by this that it doesn't stop him leaning so far he almost falls out of the bed in order to retrieve their goblet from the shelf and a jug next to it that still has enough wine to half-fill the cup. Were it any more he may not have been able to dangle the handle between his fingers and swing back into the bed without spilling any.

"I recall you enjoyed it, at the time."

There was truth in that. Once the initial pain and shock had ebbed - and Theon was insistent that it hurt far less than it had any right to - Theon had been fascinated by the way the arm hung loose at the joint and truth be told more intent on everyone seeing the extent of the damage Ramsay had done to him in earnest that day, for there was no artifice to the rope burns on his wrists, the blood running down his chest - than he was on the maester attending to set it back into the socket.  And after he'd all but begged Ramsay to push against the swelling and tell him all about it whilst he handled his cock until Theon spilled over their laps, and Ramsay had been so utterly awestruck by how deep his perversion ran that he'd nearly joined him.

If anything, Theon looks embarassed. Shy.

“Well. I  know I have my uses. My specialities.”

“And then what, you thought I'd invited you to bed out of the kindness of my heart? For the good of my health?" Ramsay's tone by itself makes a mockery of that. "Because the dungeon’s too cold for a trueborn lordling and I'm so naturally given to generosity … rather than because I fancied taking that lordling, deviant and odd as he may be, as my lover?"

That's not a term he's used before. Ramsay has called him his pet and his slut and his boy and _his_ , but the way that word trips out of his mouth so calmly, as a given fact, makes Theon's insides melt and his tongue thicken in his mouth.

"I just… I suppose..."   Ramsay is not about to let him off the hook he's struggling on, and keeps trying to meet his eyes. "I thought I was for that. And if you were to take a _companion_ she'd be… well, a She for a start..."

At that, Ramsay sits up abruptly and stares at him, more confused than affronted. Once he puts together the implication, he makes a comical face that tells Theon he's got that one quite squarely wrong.

“Oh? Really!"

"Why is this amusing to you? You thought, what? That I’d gone blind and mistaken you for a maid up until this afternoon?"

From his newly enlightened vantage point, Theon is able to look back on a number of clues that should have occurred to him sooner. It doesn't stop him smirking. He rolls towards Ramsay, onto his side, to prop himself up on one elbow.

"I just never had you down as a ponce. A pervert, certainly.” He walks his fingers absently up Ramsays chest. “A monster in a very, very fine human pelt. But not a sword swallower… “

Ramsay scoffs.

“Shows you what your intuition’s worth. But I can hold off on the sword swallowing if it offends you so, Lord Greyjoy…”

Theon knows he's joking even if the way he drawls the word lord out makes him shiver.

“Please never, by all means.” Theon takes a generous swig of wine and passes the goblet over. “I'm sure I'll end up proving how much it doesn't offend me before the night is out, though I'd rather you washed first.”

Ramay accepts that and the wine without protest.

“Well, I'm not asking you. Everybody knows about you, Theon Greyjoy. That you'll fuck anything that doesn't get out of the way quick enough…”

Theon grins ruefully. There was a truth to that once. Perhaps there would be now of their situation didn't dictate otherwise, or perhaps he might not feel the need now that he has nothing to prove and really, what else could he need but what Ramsay gives him? Including the ribbing.

“Women, men… you've been around a bit, so I hear. Stories are told of you, you know. “

“Are they.” He wants to ask, of course he does, but Ramsays tone says those stories are going to come out in their own sweet time. 

“Mmhm. Maybe I'll be a little slower off the mark next time. See if you can catch me to have your wicked ironborn way…”

It takes Theon a moment to process his inference, and all of the sureness he'd recovered deserts him. He swallows, and wishes more wine was within reach.

“Do you... like that too?”

Ramsay fixes him with a mirthful gaze. Turns onto his side so they're face to face and Theon can't escape looking him in the eyes. 

“Have you gone shy? What happened to the Ironborn Lord who had so much to say about the lowborn invert he's been deigning to share a bed with a moment ago? Say it. Out loud, or I’m not answering you.”

“Scabbard and sword both?”

Ramsay is being deliberately obtuse, blinking at him as though he doesn't know exactly what he's being asked.

“Do you like to tail, as well as top?” That's not enough either so he stabs the words out, punctuated by jabs in Ramsay’s ribs.  “Do you like. A cock. Up your arse? _My lord_? Do you want me to fuck you.”

Ramsays lips press into a pout before bowing into a wry smile.

“Not right at this moment, thank you.” Infuriating bastard. “But I'm partial, yes.”

Something vicious beats its wings in Theon's stomach. He has no compunction at all about buggering Ramsay, he's thought about it plenty, but he gets the feeling it won't always be like today. There'll be a game, and Ramsay will be difficult to please, and Theon will pay for that pleasure and it will be worth every searing bruise. He considers a further implication.

"Why do I have a horrible feeling there's not a man alive who'll attest to that?"

"Oh there are a couple who could, but I like to think they'd have the sense not to."

Theon finishes the wine. There will be more around, somehwere.

"That's not why you cut Wyler's tongue out…?"

"Oh seven fucks, no." Ramsay peers into the cup and then at Theon as if he's about to scold him for not having filled it but doesn't. "No. credit me with some taste at least. I like my boys the right side of their fiftieth nameday, and to look like they've washed sometime since their tenth." He snorts. "I only let the pretty ones suck my cock and I only let the really, really good ones sleep in my bed. Sometimes I keep them." He fixes Theon with a pointed look. There was no resident pet boy in situ when Theon arrived.

Theon brushes it off with a laugh, because Ramsay's ice cold eyes are making him too warm again.

“Well, I'm honoured. Really, I don't know how to repay my lord’s generosity.”

“You can go and fetch that tawse, for a start. With your mouth, on all fours.”

He'd been expecting to be told to fetch wine, and was probably about to of his own accord, so it takes Theon a moment to realise what he's heard and then he can scarecly believe it. Obviously Ramsay will want to reassert his position after a display like that, but if he wants to start when he's so recently sated... that means long, sustained torture, and so often it's the sessions that start with something innocuous like lether to the arse that end in real injury. Not that Theon doesn't want that, not that he thinks this has changed anything about what they are - he'd be heartbroken if it had - but he's weary and satisfied.

“Ram, I’m done in. I've been - ”

“Now.”

Ramsay says _now_ the way a less entitled man might say _please_ , and it makes Theon's knees weak every time. He passes the cup to Ramsay and rolls out of the bed, onto the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> You made it! Loved it? Want me to get on with writing about stretching racks and arse reaming? Drop me some feedback. Thanks for reading!


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